


Compass

by Clannadlvr



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Canon Compliant, F/M, Not A Fix-It, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Spoilers, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clannadlvr/pseuds/Clannadlvr
Summary: Because truly, who would have thought she’d see Steven Rogers for the first time, impossibly back from the dead, reaching for a can of Barbasol at Woolworth’s.





	1. 5 and Dime

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, huge spoilers for Endgame. Please do not read if you haven't seen the film. My take on how we get to that last scene.

It doesn't happen the way she's imagined.

Or perhaps “dreamed” is the appropriate term, though that has a decidedly fanciful feel that just won’t do. For she has never once sat at her desk, staring vacantly into her tea, constructing story lines of a lost love’s return.

That would be rubbish. Absolute rubbish. And not the sort of thing that a modern woman, a spy, and the founder of an interdisciplinary intelligence agency gives any waking mental space toward.

And yet...it slips into that twilight space between wakefulness and sleeping. When those last thoughts, before she lets her body rest, invariably and traitorously wend their way toward him.

Her dreams take care of the rest.

She's on assignment, back in wartime when they fought side by side. She approaches the hideout of a Hydra spy. The timeline isn’t right, the scene a mess of skewed recollections. But they both dash into a room looking for a code breaker, and find each other instead.

She's at her desk in Los Angeles, furiously working through paperwork, when all of a sudden there's a commotion in the hallway. There’s the flash of camera bulbs, the crowd of adoring fans part and he's there. Right in front of her. Shield in hand.

She's at home in the beautiful little cottage she's purchased, in her finest frock. There's a knock at the door and it opens unbidden. He’s there, right there on her front porch. She takes him by the hand and leads him into that missed dance, neither of them saying word.

The constant in these dreams is an unexpected meeting, so at least her subconscious mind got that part right. But if the impossible were to happen, her mind certainly would have never supplied this scenario.

Because truly, who would have thought she’d see Steven Rogers for the first time, impossibly back from the dead, reaching for a can of Barbasol at Woolworth’s.

***

Coming back to 1949 was a lot harder than he thought. Well, not the time travel part - that was actually pretty easy. After 5 stops to replace the stones, the last in the 1970s, there was just enough juice (or particles, really) for one more trip. Forward or backward.

Forward or backward, forward or backward…

Backward, but forward?

He’s never really considered himself a deep thinker, or at least he hadn’t until a solid ten years of physical challenge, heartbreak and indescribable loss had done their job. Heck, it had even turned him into a counselor for a time. He guesses he’s earned his stripes.

So when he finally decides that the only way to move forward in his life, to actually have a life, is to go backward, he feels good to go. Even as his hands shake, ever so slightly, when he puts in those final coordinates: 6/5/1949. Even as he streams through the rainbow colors of the quantum realm and blinks into existence in a DC area alleyway.

He’s done it. He’s there. He’s _then_.

Holy crap what has he done?

What if she’s moved on? He hasn’t been able to find out much about her timeline aside from some very light personnel files. He can’t even find her husband’s name, which he guesses is one of those perks of being the creator of SHIELD: relative privacy. But he does know the year when the checkbox answer to “Married?” on her employment form changes from “N” to “Y.” So he plots a course for two years before that change, enough time, he thinks, to see if they have a chance.

But now that he’s here? Every single doubt flows through his mind. Not about her. Never about her. But of what she’ll think of him. Is he too broken, too tired...too old to be right for her? The Steve who crashed the Valkyrie was hopeful, a do-gooder and damned boy scout. The Steve standing in an alley, in what probably looks like a space suit, feels like none of those things.

What he does feel is absolute panic.

Taking a few good, deep breaths, he finally remembers to transform his suit into something more appropriate for the era. Not a uniform. No, he thinks he’s finally done with those. A suit. A simple outfit for a regular Joe.

It feels like a lie.

He doesn’t belong here. He’s an anachronism turned on its head.

He needs to figure out what to do next, and damned if he doesn’t first think to reach for his phone to Google his options. Stupid.

It’s not that he doesn’t know his destination. He’s memorized the directions, set himself down just a few miles away from the the quaint cottage that may (or may not) hold his future. And he knows it’s a cottage because he’s seen the blueprints. He can’t figure out anything about the man she marries in the future or how she’ll feel about him returning, but he can tell you the layout of that house square foot by square foot. The number of bedrooms (two), bathrooms (1.5), the way the hallways lead to the kitchen, and the panic room hidden behind a secret panel.

Once a spy, always a spy.

Oh, he knows the way all right. But he’s not sure how to take the first step.

So maybe it’s best to get himself back into the era. Visit a few shops, pick up some necessities. Maybe even watch a film with a newsreel at the beginning. He’s got a wad of 1949 and earlier bills in his wallet, a fake ID and just enough confidence in his cultural memory to give this a go.

Maybe.

He gives himself a brief once-over, making sure the very few things he carries with him that are not of this era are safely out of sight. A brief look at his surroundings confirms that he’s set down exactly where he expects, which means that if he makes his way out of the alley and turns to the right, he’ll be on his way to her house.

So he turns to the left.

His first stop is a toy store. It helps him to see that many of his favorite childhood toys are still kicking around, but there are still enough new post-war entries to make him scratch his head. It’s off-putting, for sure. But at least it’s not that same feeling as running out into Time’s Square in another century. He’ll take his wins when he can right now.

He takes his time there, wandering around until he gums up the courage to move further down the street, in the general direction of his eventual destination.

(Thanos? No problem. A small cottage? Nightmare fuel.)

Next, a deli. Time travel has him famished. Even if he’s not burning four days worth of calories fighting off evil, his metabolism is always in overdrive. And it helps. There’s something familiar in the not-as-processed flavors of a simple ham sandwich with mustard. A sense memory that helps him feel a bit more grounded.

Maybe after he hits every store on the block, he’ll feel ready to walk another half a mile closer. Maybe.

So next is the variety store. Corner store. No, 5 and dime? He mentally checks his vocabulary and pushes the door open to Woolworth’s. It’s odd not to be surrounded by digital price scanners, the pulse of your phone notifying you of deals (he still thinks Tony was wrong about THIS level of surveillance). There are way less products, but the names seem familiar...some have even stood the test of time into the 21st century.

His eyes roam shelves and he is amused by the claims, especially on the pharmacy products. His future knowledge tells him that most of it is bull, and some of it even dangerous, but there’s an earnestness to it all that starts to pull him in. It takes him down the corridor to the shaving products, the low counters barely separating him from the shoppers around him.

And then there’s something, niggling at the back of his brain. He’s grown so accustomed to heeding that feeling. It’s the thing in battle that tells him when to pivot, when to punch. When to strike out before it strikes him. But he’s NOT in battle anymore, so he tells that protective nudge to can it.

He’s in the middle of a Woolworth's in 1949. What kind of trouble can there truly be?

So it’s a pretty big kick the pants when he reaches for the can of Barbasol and his eyes lock with the shopper just on the other side.  


***

This was supposed to be a simple shopping trip. A quick walk to the shop to pick up some basics before she could head back to her house and hole herself away in S.H.I.E.L.D. planning. A momentary pause for toiletries, a sandwich for lunch and she’d be back to work in her home office, quick as you like. 

Not this. Never this. 

The container of talcum powder she’d been considering drops from her hand and clatters back onto the shelf. And for one of the very first times in her life she’s completely frozen.

But then her fingers twitch, sense memory driving her toward the service revolver that used to be in her purse. But no longer. The war is over.

Why in bloody hell did she stop carrying?

The impostor in front of her (it must be, it can’t be) looks just as shocked as she, so she goes for the upper hand.

“I am going to recommend,” she starts, “that whatever sick prank you are pulling, you end it now and walk out that door, before I put a bullet in your brain.” Her voice barely shakes. She’s gotten quite adept at dissembling over the years.

“Peggy…” stutters the vicious mockery in front of her. Her hands instinctively go back to the talcum powder next to her, the closest weapon she can find. She starts to calculate how quickly she can dust it in his face, launch herself over the counter and tackle him. Or how quickly she can dust it in his face, sprint down the aisle and out the front door.

He brain prefers option 1, but her heart is completely in favor of option 2.

Brain first:

“Walk away. Now.” She says and hates herself for the quiver in her voice. Hates how her eyes are frantically taking in every part of him. The strong shoulders (him), beautiful mouth (certainly him), the touches of gray at his temples (not him), the eyes that have always been so honest (dear Lord).

And she watches as those eyes narrow, jaw firms in such an achingly familiar way.

“No.” He says simply.

“No?” She parrots, feeling like an imbecile.

“I'm...not going to walk away.”

She is well and truly gobsmacked. And perhaps for the first time in her life, Peggy Carter retreats.

“Fine,” she says. “Then I will.”

She leaves the canister where it is, turns on a heel, and makes her way down the aisle to the door. Every muscle is quivering, her stomach flipping and it’s all she can do to school her expression to a blank canvas and steady her legs so she doesn’t trip over her feet.

In what feels like a millisecond and years all at the same time, she’s at the door, pushing through, her unceremonious exit serenaded by the tinkling bell strung over the doorway. She cuts quickly to the left, down the alleyway, all purpose in her stride.

Till her legs acquiesce and truly turn to jello. She slaps her palm against the brick, in a rage, to keep herself upright.

“Pull it together, Carter,” she says to herself through gritted teeth. She has to figure out her next move, how to handle what can only be someone’s idea of cruel revenge.

And quickly, she thinks, as she hears footsteps round the corner.

***

Well, shit.

There's really no way that could have gone any worse.

Actually, no, scratch that, he thinks as he stares blankly, unseeing at the can of shaving foam in front of him. She might’ve had her gun.

Because if there's one thing he knows about Peggy Carter, it's that she hasn’t hesitated to shoot him in the past. And that was when she believed who he was. Though he had been in a compromising position.

The memory makes him snort under his breath, drawing him from his shock just a bit. He needs to figure out his options. He's not exactly sure what he should do next, but what he won't do is let her get too far. There's been enough distance between them for the intervening years, now matter how you add them up. And in all the ways he is tired (oh, so tired) he’s mostly tired of of not being happy. Of not being whole.

So before he knows it, his feet are propelling him towards the door, his hands pushing it open and his head ducking through. He stills, listening to the sounds of the sleepy street around him. There's the soft purr of a motor, the low murmur of a conversation across the street.The tinkling of a shop bell as a door opens and closes. And to his left, labored breathing, soft but there.

Carefully, he rounds the building to the left, his fingers trailing along the brick as he quietly makes his way. Nerves turning his stomach, not sure what he'll say next and then he sees her. Her body bowed forward as she seems to take deep shuddering breaths, her hand pressed against the wall. As if she's holding up the wall through sheer force, though he's pretty sure it's the one doing the supporting.

He lets his foot scuff the concrete, a subtle warning. Her shoulders straighten and she turns to him. 

Their eyes meet. 

And in that moment, everything clicks. He came here. Across years and trauma and maybe even timelines and universes to find her. He may have carried it in his pocket, that picture of her, but truly she's always been his compass. In that moment, the fear washes away and he knows his true north.

***


	2. Southwest & Main

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we hit a stalemate...and a whole lotta confused emotions. Enjoy! :)

She’s going to take some time to convince. 

He realizes this as he watches her curl her fingers around a lead pipe she must have found somewhere in the alley. Ready to strike. And in that moment, he sees that she's changed a little too. She's always been on her guard, the consummate spy, but the automatic shift to violence? That feels new. Was it the end of the war? The intervening years? Or is it just that he brings out her murderous side, he wonders, reflecting back on the marks she made on his shield.

Not that he can be one to talk - he's changed more than he can fathom. And he worries that it's too much. But he’s come too far and yearned too deeply for that to stop him now. 

He’s got this. 

“Peggy,” he says “I swear it's me. Please, just put the pipe down so we can talk.”

“Steven Rogers is dead.” She says bluntly, coldly. “We searched. We analyzed. I…” She stops herself.

“But I’m not. I'm really not, Peg. I'm standing here, right in front of you. Ask me anything, really. I can prove it to you.”

“I’ve heard the quiz show myself and I certainly don't think a game of 20 questions will convince me.”

“Just let me try. I’ll even start.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm so sorry I missed our date. I tried to get there, but I couldn't.”

She stills. Doesn't say a word. Grips the pipe harder.

“The Stork Club. Saturday. 8pm. When I sent that bomber into the Arctic, making that date with you, I knew it might be hopeless, but I promised myself that I'd make it up to you one day. And here I am.”

He sees she's gone sheet white, speechless. He waits. And hopes.

 

***

 

No one else could have heard that communique. She's never spoken of the words he said to her, that she said to him, not to anyone. Ever. Not even Howard. How can this be possible?

But she cannot hope. She cannot dare to think it could even be possible. It's too much. She's fought so hard to rise above this over the past few years. She said her goodbyes, with that dramatic tipping of his blood into the ocean. She put her heart into her work. She even fell in love again, after a sort. Even though it didn't last. 

Damn it, she is stronger than this. She’s survived this once. To hell if she’ll go through it again for a 2 bit charlatan claiming an identity that isn’t his.  She takes a deep breath, straightens her back and looks him dead in the eye.

“I don't know who you are, but it's been a few years since I last saw Steven Rogers and I've learned quite a bit in that time. I've seen trained assassins, taught to shift from identity to identity. instructed on who to be. So you being an impostor is not out of the realm of possibility. In fact, it's the the simpler and more likely conclusion than Captain America being back from the dead.”

“Occam's Razor,” he says.

She lets out a brittle chuckle. Well, now she knows this certainly isn't him. Steve wasn't a dumb man, but he didn't have an incredible amount of schooling. This very concept would be outside his purview.

He seems to read her mind in that moment. “Peggy, I've learned a few things since we’ve been apart. Including some highly classified and effective methods of instructing assets to kill. You're talking about brainwashing.”

The word is foreign to her as she turns it around in her mind. “I daresay I'm not.”

He mumbles something that sounds like “right, too early,” but she thinks she must have misheard. He speaks louder, his voice carrying across the 20 feet that still separate them. “I've seen it done more than a few times- it's this process of programming people to be what they're not. To train them to complete certain tasks. To be someone else. Even to kill. Peggy, I'm not brainwashed. I’m not an impostor. I'm just a little late.”

“Okay,” he amends. “A lot late.”

 

***

 

She lets the silence spread between them, just staring at him. Holding that damn pipe and waiting. It's beginning to drive him absolutely crazy. Why doesn't she do something, say something? 

“Look,” he says, “as much as I'm enjoying this alleyway chat, I'm thinking we're going to start arousing some suspicions. Big strong man cornering a relatively defenseless woman, except for the pipe. Can we go someplace else to talk?”

She visibly bristles at the insinuation of her inferiority, and he knows he's hit his mark. Perfect. He hates poking at her like this, but he needs to change the situation. Just get her angry enough to throw her off her game.

“If you really are Steven Rogers,” she says, “you know what I can do with this pipe.”

“Yes ma'am,” he says with a smirk. “But I don't think a battle between the two of us right off of a moderately busy street is the best idea.”

She's straightens, all duty in an instant. “Agreed. There's an abandoned warehouse at the corner of Southwest and Main. Meet me there in an hour.”

“So you can gather reinforcements? No offense, Peg, but I'm trying to keep my reappearance low profile and that just won't help.

“No,” she says, with a ruthless smile. “I don't need backup. I just need to fetch my gun.”

He gulps a tiny bit. All at once relieved that she still wants to see him, even if she doesn't quite believe who he is, and also a little scared. 

At least he has an hour to work out how to convince her that it's really him.

 

***

 

Peggy makes it up the steps of her house, calmly and assuredly striding across her porch and opening up her front door, slipping inside before she starts to lose her composure.  She makes it. Barely.

She rests her forehead against the inside of the door. Bloody Nora, what is going on?

In truth, she feels like she knows what's going on even as she struggles against it. Her brain tells her that this man is an impostor. A spy from a rival agency sent to rattle her just as she builds S.H.I.E.L.D., their hope for the future. Her future. There are things about him that just don’t add up.  That seem...different.

But her heart, her instincts, her damned gut tells her it might just be  _ him _ .

In the years since she lost Steve, she's done a pretty good job of letting those two aspects of herself work in concert, her head and her heart. Her knowledge and ingenuity coupled with her primal instincts have always served her, getting her out of dangerous situations and allowing her to see possibilities. But now, with them at war, she is well and truly flummoxed.

So she calls Howard.

Jarvis picks up and sounds delighted to hear her voice. “Agent Carter!” he says warmly, “it has been too long.”

Hearing Edwin's voice calms her a bit and she can't help but allow her lips to break into the smallest smile. While she still interacts with Howard and his team on a weekly basis, it’s mostly via couriered messages or by whatever newfangled contraption he’s come up with that week. But with her move to Northern Virginia, her contact with Mr. Jarvis has become quite limited. “It truly has. I have missed our adventures.”

“As have I” he says, “though perhaps not as much the dangerous sort of adventure you prefer,” he says wryly. 

She forces a laugh out, thinking to herself, oh, Mr. Jarvis, how incredibly right you are in this moment. “I hate to rush, but is Howard available?”

“No, I'm afraid not. He's actually in DC at the moment, in closed door meetings for the next few hours with the President. Is it a terribly urgent matter?”

So close yet so far away.

“Perhaps,” she says, at a loss, mind working through her options frantically. 

His voice cuts through her musings. “Peggy, is everything all right?”

She's forgotten how good he's become, through their adventures and the friendship that’s developed between them, at reading her. The lie is about to roll off her tongue. But she decides that in the moment, contrary to what she told Ste- the doppelganger, that she could use all the help she could get.

“Actually, no.”

He is silent on the other side of the line for a few long moments.

“Whatever can I do to help?” he asks quietly.

“Perhaps check my sanity?” She tries to make the tone a joke, but fears it falls flat. 

“All right,” he says, waiting patiently.

Oh, where oh where to start with this sordid mess? 

“If... If when we encountered Whitney Frost, your dear Ana- oh Mr. Jarvis I hate even say this, but if she had not made it out alive. And a year later you bumped into someone who looked just like her at a corner store. How would you react?”

He pauses for a long moment. It’s to his credit that he doesn’t ask her if she’s crazy for bringing this up, considering how Ana’s injuries continue to impact their lives.

“Does she identify herself as my wife?” he asks quietly.

“Yes,” Peggy says, all at once feeling like the worst sort of human for peeling back this scab and hanging on every word for his answer.

“Well, then my first instinct would be to grab her in my arms and hold her to me, never letting her go. I'm sure the shock and distrust would catch up afterward. But in that moment, I wouldn't look too close at the miracle, I would just embrace it.”

“Truly?” Peggy asks.

“I know, it seems surprising as this rush to emotion isn’t exactly the way we were raised” he says wryly. “But I think almost losing her once has made me realize what a miracle her presence in my life is. I would accept another one readily.”

This shakes her to the core.

In that moment she's both confused and ashamed of her reaction to...the man she met today. She still can't believe that it's him, but the lack of faith that she shows in the lost love that's come to define so much of her life troubles her. If there’s a chance it really is him, is she too far gone to accept it?

“May I ask what's going on,” Jarvis says. “Or can I assume from your example that you have encountered such a vision?”

Her voice is uneven, though she fights against it. “Oh, just an academic exercise I'm sure. I appreciate you answering my query.” 

“Would you need backup for this... academic exercise?”

“Perhaps,” she says truthfully, “but my preferred backup, regrettably, is sitting in Harold's mansion at the moment and not here in DC.”

“Actually, that's not the case. Mr Stark has come up with this new invention he refers to as “call passalong,” which is truly is a dreadful name. But the concept is that a caller is immediately passed from our main line at the mansion to our current location, wherever that may be. As it stands, I'm 20 minutes from your location and am already moving to the door.”

She’s elated and concerned all at once. “Edwin” she says “I can't ask you to do that.”

“You're not asking. And I'm not waiting for your permission. I'm on my way.”

When he hangs up the phone without hearing her answer, unspeakably rude and out of character as it is, she can't help but be a little glad that she has backup.

 

***

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was reminded after reading neonheartbeat's phenomenal "A Star in Another Sky" that the concept of brainwashing is just coming into vogue around this time, so it felt right to make it yet another one of Steve's "time-out-of-time" moments


	3. Basic Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peggy puts Steve through his paces...but will it be enough?

***

He spends that in between hour grabbing a local map from Woolworth’s, making sure he knows the exact location of the warehouse. But it's just something to pass the time. Soon after he’d made that decision to go back, right after returning the Time stone, he’d made a detour in his recent past for recon. He’d studied the maps of her neighborhood and even called in a few favors to get some period intel and supplies. Now his over-preparedness has given him nothing left to do.

Except worry. Absolutely worry.

There was part of him that thought he could mention the Stork Club, say he was late for their date and she would fly into his arms. But she's changed. She was always tough, reluctant to create those bonds of trust, which is why he felt so lucky when they did. But there's a hardness to her now that he didn't expect.

And truth be told, he didn't sell the “sorry I’m late” line he would have back in 1945. Or even after just a few years in the future. He's old and battered and has maybe lost his belief in magic. Oh he's seen it in many forms, wielded by Stephen Strange, Wanda and even Loki. But after The Snap...well, everything has become a bit more gray and a moment of magic harder to believe.

And if he sees in Peggy's eyes what he thinks he sees, they're a little bit more like mirrors than opposites nowadays.

Which means he needs to have a new game plan. This isn't the Peggy he's always known. He's not the Steve she's always known. So how do you plan for a battle where you don't know the players. Where your opponent, even if it's the woman you love, isn't quite the same as you remember.

You improvise.

So here he is. At the abandoned warehouse. Back in his Captain America gear, but it's not the one she knows. If the 1940's business suit felt like a lie, then the uniform he wore when he made tough choices, sometimes bad ones, hurt people he's loved...well, that's truly his second skin. It's the suit he wore when everything inside him broke. And if he really wants to make a new start with her, trying to convince her of who he is, he needs to actually be his true self. Damaged, unsure and so very ready to rest. With her.

He hears the car pull up and waits.

 

***

 

From the back of the car, she reapplies her lipstick. Powders her nose. She's read stories of warriors who use paint to signify their strength and she feels like it's not that dissimilar. For women in life or battle, it's best to put your strongest face forward. Even if she feels like she's an earthquake inside.

She lets her eyes catch Jarvis's gaze in the rear view mirror.

“Are you quite sure you want me to wait in the car,” he says, his very tone implying that this is the worst idea she's ever had.

“Honestly?”

He merely raises a brow.

“No.” she says truthfully “But if there's a chance that this is really him, I need to take it. I need to be with him alone to know.”

She’d sketched out the basic details of her encounter with Steve/not Steve when Jarvis arrived at her home. She’d been amused when Jarvis’s face had immediately shown his elation, before he quickly schooled it to cautious support.

“Very well. I'll be right here if you need me,” Jarvis says and she sees his hands creep toward the secret compartment in the dash that she well knows holds a revolver.

In that moment, she's never been more thankful for her friendship with Howard Stark. For as mercurial a genius he is, he’s brought a world of good into her life.

“All right,” she says, taking a deep breath. “You know the signal.”

He nods. “If received, I message Mr. Stark and Mr. Phillips, then make my way in.”

“Only if absolutely necessary on that last bit,” Peggy says. He nods.

As she exits the car and makes her way to the side entrance of the old rambling building, she feels incredible guilt over asking Mr. Jarvis to help, but at the same time it’s such a comfort knowing he's there. It truly is like old times, she thinks, and so easy to fall back into habits that became like second nature during her time in New York and L.A.

She reminds herself to be cautious not to fall back into old habits with the man just beyond this wall.

She takes a deep breath, puts her almost steady hand on the knob and pulls the door open wide.

 

***

 

As she walks into the warehouse, smart heels clicking across the concrete, a shaft of light catches her slight form and he is once again punched in the gut by his love for her. As much as the prospect of her turning away terrifies him, it's what he needs in that moment. It gives him strength.

Even in his darkest moments, even when she doesn’t believe in him, she's giving him strength. Isn’t that just the craziest thing, he thinks. His hand in his pocket closes around his compass.

“Thank you for coming,” he says. And as he still hears the rumbling of the car outside, he continues with a frustrated sigh. “I thought you said you didn't need backup.”

“Let's just call it my ride home” she responds. And draws the gun from her bag, holding it at her side. “Just so we have all of our cards on the table,” she continues, “your point about me being defenseless earlier quite reminded me that I should come prepared. As did you,” she continues eyeing his decidedly different Captain America garb.

She may not trust him, but he knows she understands game theory when she sees it.

“Fair enough,” he says. “What can I do to prove who I am?”

Her expression is cold, direct. Appraising. “That’s to be determined, though a few tests should at least lead us on the way,” she says. “First, a show physical strength.”

He stares her blankly for a second, definitely thrown off guard. “You've got to be kidding me, Peg.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Does it sound like I'm winding you up?” When he just stares at her, she sighs and continues. “If you are truly Stephen Rogers, his renowned Captain America strength and skill would be hard to copy. Especially after the loss of Dr. Erskine‘s serum.”

Well, it looks like she's going to play this the hard-ass way. Fine. He's had some of the worst drill instructors known to man. Hell, he’s even dealt with Natasha's grueling workouts. He can handle this.

He pushes aside the thought of Nat, ignores the way his stomach clenches. So he focuses instead on how royally ticked off he’s becoming.

“Let's do this,” he says, pulling his shield out and to the ready.

But it’s not the shot of her gun as he’s expecting. It’s a god’s honest physical fitness challenge, just like she said. For 20 minutes she puts him through his paces. Push-ups, pull ups, sprints, lifting an abandoned car that sits in the warehouse. Using his shield as a boomerang, knocking out targets. He’s halfway through when he realizes her mouth has dropped open in a bit of shock. If he was trying to convince her he is the same guy, he realizes, he’s doing a piss poor job. Because he knows his reactions, his style of fighting, everything has changed in those ten plus years. But screw it, he thinks. He is who he is. And he doesn’t hold back.

When she puts up her hand in a gesture for him to halt, he reholsters his shield and stands at the ready.

“Next, a test of knowledge,” she says. He can barely suppress a groan.

“What was the name of the program that transformed Steve Rogers?”

“Project Rebirth,” he says.

“In what year did Steve Rogers enlist?”

“1943...after multiple tries.”

The questions are all from his personnel file at first, but then they take a turn…questions about the Howlies, that laughable USO tour and his final mission. And then, very subtly, he notices, each question starts to feature the inquisitor herself.

“Which enlistee did I punch during Steve Rogers' first days at Camp Lehigh?”

“Gilmore Hodge, and you didn’t just punch him. You knocked him on his ass.”

“What was the name of the woman Steve Rogers kissed at the London base?”

“Lorraine. But it should have been Peggy.” He feels rewarded at the flush that fills her cheeks. “Ma’am, I can do this all day.” He can’t resist the words or the smirk that goes along with it.  

She circles him, gun still at her side, like he’s a damned basic trainee. She still keeps a safe distance.

“I'm curious,” she starts “why an impostor would wear a suit modeled after Captain America, but not an accurate one.”

This is it. Cards on the table time. He takes a deep breath. “It is an accurate one” he says, “where I come from. Or really, when I come from. This suit is from the 21st century.”

He watches her go pale. “I'm sorry?” she says. Good. For the first time in 20 minutes he has her flummoxed.

He walks a little closer, ignoring as her hand tightens around the pistol. “I'm realizing that I went about this the wrong way, Peggy. I should have started with the truth.”

“Yes, let's,” she says fiercely.

“It's me Peggy. It really is me.” He hopes that the number of times he says her name starts to trigger a response. “But it's been a long long time since we've seen each other. After I went into the ice…” he pauses and takes a deep breath, “I wasn't pulled out for another 70 years.”

Her reaction is slight, but obvious to him. Her eyes go wide, her nostrils flare and she rocks back slightly on her heels.

“I woke up in 2012,” he said, “And everyone I'd ever known or ever loved was gone. Except for you,” he said. “You were still there, but in your 90s and fading fast. I lost you. I lost all that time with you. And spent another 10 years in that future trying to make a go of it. But Peggy, I never could. I mean I took up the role of Captain America again. I got the new suit. I made incredible friends and fought alongside them as warriors. I watched the world burn and heal, burn and heal again. But it never felt like enough. And so when I had the chance to come back…”

“But how?” she says, For the first time he sees the facade start to crack. “How on earth is this possible?” She starts to shake “You went into the ice, we searched for you, we looked for you.” Tears start to fill her eyes as she drops her voice to a shaky whisper, “I mourned you.” He can barely hear her as she says “I let you go.”

 

***

 

Oh God, she thinks. She said it. The words that she has been holding back for so long. Holding them back because if she even begins to admit that this could really be Steve in front of her, she sets herself up to have her heart broken, shattered. All over again

If she lets herself believe...oh, it would be so easy. She has to be absolutely sure. And if it is him? Will he ever forgive her for giving up?

She meets his eyes again, and she can see that he’s just as rattled as she. All pretense is gone. The gun is still in her hand but feels like the farthest thing from her mind.

“I need you to prove it to me,” she says. “Because I can’t go through this again. Not ever.” Her voice cracks as she trembles.

 

***

 

And all of the sudden, it’s that easy. Like breathing, he thinks. He walks even closer, now just a few scant feet away from her. He pulls the compass from his pocket, flips it open revealing her photo inside.

“It’s you, Peggy. It’s always been you. Through centuries and galaxies, and trust me, I mean that literally, I’ve been looking for you.” He pauses, letting the tears fill his eyes that he’s been holding back for so, so long. It’s time for truth.  “I love you, Peggy Carter. I never stopped. Ever.”

The gun clatters to the ground and he hears her whisper, “me neither.”

And then she’s running, oh god she’s running, and flying and leaping into his arms. The impact almost knocks him back and he should be surprised but he doesn’t care. He wraps her in his arms and holds her as close as he can without crushing her.

And they’re both crying and laughing and hanging on for dear life.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but eventually they’re both on the ground, kneeling with their arms around each other, Peggy practically crawling into this lap. Both of them so desperate to get close to each other, to prove each other is real, whole and alive.

 

***

Oh god, oh god, it’s him, it’s him, she thinks. Damn decorum, damn caution. All she knows is he’s here, and he’s hers and he’s alive.

She pulls back just enough, to see the lines around his eyes and the gray at his temples that all of the sudden make sense. She needs to say it before she forgets, even though she knows she’ll spend lifetimes saying it. This one matters.

“I love you too, Steven Rogers. I never stopped.”

There will be more to tell him, she knows. About how that statement can still be true in the face of what her life has been in the past few years. About the person she’s become, the things she’s done...

But for now, all she needs is to cling to him, on the dirty floor of a dilapidated building, rocking back and forth as they both let go of the years of longing and heartbreak.

And that’s exactly how Edwin Jarvis finds them. Then slowly, quietly backs away and out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come in a series of epilogues, missing scenes, etc. (And don't worry - I realize they haven't kissed yet. ;) )


End file.
